The Night Watch (47 page)

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"Do you know what they're preparing Svetlana for?"

"Yes," said Semyon, splashing more vodka into the glasses.

"What is it?"

"I can't answer that. I gave a written pledge. Do you want me to take my shirt off, so you can see the sign of chastising fire on my back? If I say a word I'll go up in flames with this chair, and the ashes will fit in a cigarette pack. So I'm sorry, Anton. Don't try to squeeze it out of me."

"Thanks," I said. "Let's drink. Maybe we will get smashed after all? I certainly need it."

"I can see that," Semyon agreed. "Let's get to it."

I woke up very early. It was quiet all around, that living silence you get in the country, with the rustling of the morning wind after it's finally turned cool. Only that didn't make me feel any better. The bed was soaking wet with sweat and my head was splitting. Semyon was snoring monotonously on the bed beside me—three of us had been put in the same room. Tolik was sleeping on the floor, wrapped up in a blanket. He'd turned down the hammock he'd been offered, saying his back was hurting—he'd injured it in some ruckus in 1976—and he'd be better off sleeping on a hard surface. I held the back of my head in my hands to stop the sudden movement shaking it to pieces and sat up on the bed. I looked at the bedside locker and saw two aspirins and a bottle of Borzhomi mineral water. Who could this kind soul be?

The evening before, we'd drunk two bottles between us. Then Tolik had turned up. Then someone else, and they'd brought some wine. But I hadn't drunk any wine; I still had enough sense left for that. I washed the aspirins down with half a bottle of mineral water and sat there stupidly for a while, waiting for the medicine to take effect. The pain didn't go away. I didn't think I'd be able to stand it for long.

"Semyon," I called in a hoarse voice. "Semyon!"

The magician opened one eye. He looked perfectly okay. As if he hadn't drunk far more than me the day before. So that was what an extra hundred years of experience could do for you.

"Fix my head, will you…"

"I don't have an axe handy," the magician muttered.

"Ah, you…" I groaned. "Will you fix the pain?"

"Anton, we drank of our free will, didn't we? Nobody forced us, did they? And you enjoyed it!" He turned over onto his other side.

I realized I couldn't expect any help from Semyon. And anyway he was right; it was just that I couldn't take it anymore. I slipped my feet into my sneakers, stepped over Tolik's sleeping body, and went out of
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the room.

There were two rooms just for guests, but the door of the other one was locked. On the other hand, the door at the end of the corridor, leading into our hostess's bedroom, was open. Remembering what Tiger Cub had said about her healing powers, I walked straight in without any hesitation. It looked like everything was ganging up on me today. She wasn't there. And despite my suspicions, neither were Ignat andLena . Tiger Cub had spent the night with Yulia, and the young girl was sleeping like a child, with one arm and one leg dangling over the side of the bed. I didn't care anymore who I asked for help. I tiptoed up, sat down beside the massive bed, and whispered her name:

"Yulia, Yulienka…"

The girl opened her eyes, blinked, and asked sympathetically:

"Hangover?"

"Yes." I didn't risk a nod, someone had just set a small grenade off inside my head.

"Uh-huh?"

She closed her eyes, I even thought she'd dozed off again, but she kept her arm around my neck. For a few seconds nothing happened, then the pain started receding rapidly. As if someone had opened a secret faucet in the back of my head and started draining out the seething, poisonous swill.

"Thanks," I whispered. "Thanks, Yulienka."

"Don't drink so much; you can't take it," the young girl mumbled and immediately started snoring softly and evenly, as if she'd simply flipped a switch from work to sleep. Only kids and computers can do that. I stood up, delighted to see the world in color again. Semyon had been right, of course. You have to take responsibility for your actions. But sometimes you simply don't have enough strength for that. I looked around. The entire bedroom was decorated in beige tones; even the inclined window was slightly tinted. The music center had a golden finish; the thick, fluffy carpet on the floor was light-brown. I really shouldn't be doing this. No one had invited me.

I walked quietly toward the door, and when I was already halfway out, I heard Yulia's voice:

"You owe me a Snickers bar, right?"

"Two," I agreed.

I could have gone back to finish my night's sleep, but my memories of the bed weren't very pleasant ones. It felt like all I had to do was lie down and the pain lurking in the pillow would pounce again. I just dropped back into my room to grab my jeans and shirt and put them on, standing in the doorway. Was everybody really asleep? Tiger Cub was wandering about outside somewhere, but surely someone must have sat up until morning, talking over a bottle.

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There was a little hall on the second floor. I spotted Danila and Nastya in there, sleeping peacefully on the couch, and beat a hasty retreat. I shook my head: Danila had a very pretty and attractive wife, and Nastya had an elderly husband who was madly in love with her.

But then, they were only people.

And we were Others, the volunteers of the Light. How could it be helped if we had a different morality?

It was like a battle-front, with its field-army romances and the young nurses comforting the officers and the men, and not only in the hospital beds. In a war the appetite for life is just too strong. There was a library there too. I found Garik and Farid in it. They'd spent all night talking over a bottle—and not just one. And it obviously wasn't long since they'd fallen asleep in their armchairs: Farid's pipe was still smoking faintly on the table in front of him. There were piles of books that had been pulled off the shelves lying on the floor. They must have had a long argument about something, appealing for support to writers and poets, philosophers, and historians.

I went down the long, wooden spiral staircase. Surely I could find someone to share this peaceful, quiet morning with me?

Everybody was still asleep in the living room too. I glanced into the kitchen, but there was no one there except for a dog, cowering in the corner.

"Moving again?" I asked.

The terrier bared his fangs and gave a pitiful whine.

"Well, who asked you to play soldier yesterday?" I squatted down in front of the dog and took a piece of sausage off the table. The well-trained animal hadn't dared steal it. "Here, take it." The jaws clicked shut above my open palm, licking it clean.

"You be kind and people will be kind to you!" I explained. "And stop cowering in corners." Surely I could find someone around here who was awake?

I took a piece of sausage for myself and chewed it as I walked through the living room into the study. They were asleep in there too.

Even when it was opened out, the couch in the corner was narrow, so they were lying very close. Ignat was in the middle with his muscular arms flung out wide and a sweet smile on his face. Lena was pressed up against his left side, with one hand clutching his thick shock of blond hair and her other arm thrown across his chest, with her hand on our Don Juan's other partner. Svetlana had her face buried in Ignat's armpit, with her arms reaching in under the blanket that had slipped halfway off their bodies. I closed the door very quietly and carefully.

It was a cozy little restaurant. As its name suggested, the Sea Dog was famous for its fish dishes and its shipboard interior. And what's more, it was right next to the metro station. And for a puny middle class that was sometimes prepared to have a fling in a restaurant but liked to save money on taxis, that was a
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factor of some importance.

This customer had arrived by car, in an old but perfectly serviceable model 6 Zhiguli. To the well-trained eyes of the waiters the man looked a lot more prosperous than his automobile suggested. The calm way he consumed his expensive Danish vodka without inquiring about the price or thinking about any possible problems with the highway patrol only served to reinforce this opinion.

When the waiter brought the sturgeon he'd ordered, the man glanced up at him briefly. Before that he'd been sitting there, tracing lines on the tablecloth with a toothpick, occasionally stopping and gazing at the flame of the glass-bodied oil lamp, but now he suddenly looked up.

The waiter didn't tell anyone what he thought he saw in that instant. It was as if he were gazing into two blinding well shafts. Blinding in the way the Light blinds when it sears and becomes indistinguishable from the Darkness.

"Thank you," said the customer.

The waiter walked away, righting against the urge he felt to walk faster. Repeating to himself: It was just the reflection of the lamplight in the cozy gloom of the restaurant. Just the way the glitter of the lamp happened to catch his eyes.

Boris Ignatievich continued sitting there, breaking toothpicks. The sturgeon went cold, the vodka in the crystal carafe got warm. On the other side of the partition made out of thick cables, fake ships' wheels, and fake sailcloth, a large gathering was celebrating someone's birthday, there were speeches of congratulation and complaints about the heat, taxes, and some gangsters who weren't doing things "the right way."

Gesar, the head of the Moscow office of the Night Watch, waited.

The dogs who'd stayed outside shied away at the sight of me. The "freeze" had been really tough on them. Their bodies had refused to obey them; they hadn't been able to draw breath or bark; the saliva had congealed in their mouths; the air had pressed down on them with a hot, heavy delirious hand. But their spirits were still alive.

The dogs had had a hard time.

The gates were half-open. I went out and stood there for a moment, not quite sure where I was going and what I was going to do.

What difference did it make, anyway?

I didn't feel resentful. I wasn't even in pain. The two of us had never made love. In fact, I was the one who'd been careful to erect barriers. I didn't just live for the present moment; I wanted everything right now, but I wanted it forever.

I found the disc-player on my belt and switched it on at random. That always worked for me. Maybe because I'd been controlling the simple electronic circuits for a long time, like Tiger Cub, without knowing it?

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Who's to blame if you're so tired?

And haven't found what you were longing for?

Lost everything you sought so hard,

Flown up to the sky and fallen back again?

Whose fault is it that day after day

Life walks on other people's paths

But your home has become lonely,

With darkness behind its windows,

And the light dims and sounds die

And your hands seek new torment,

And if your pain should ease—

It means a new disaster's on the way.

It was what I myself had wanted. I'd tried to make it happen. And now I had only myself to blame. Instead of spending all evening with Semyon, discussing the complex issues of the global conflict between Good and Evil, I ought to have stayed. Instead of getting angry with Gesar and Olga for their cunning version of truth, I ought to have insisted on my own. And never, ever have thought that it was impossible to win.

Once you start thinking like that, you've already lost.

Who's to blame, tell me, brother,

One is married, another's rich,

One is funny, another's in love.

One's a fool, another's your enemy,

And whose fault is it that there and here

They wait for each other, it's how they live,

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But the day is dreary, the night is empty,

The warm places are crowded out,

And the light dims and sounds die,

And your hands seek new torment,

And if your pain should ease,

It means a new disaster's on the way.

Who's to blame and what's the secret,

Why is there no grief or happiness

No victories without defeats,

And the score of luck and disaster is even.

And whose fault is it you're alone,

And your one life so very long,

And so dreary and you're still waiting,

Hoping some day you will die.

"Oh, no," I whispered, pulling off the earphones. "That's not for me." We'd all been taught for so long to give everything and not take anything in exchange. To sacrifice ourselves for the sake of others, to face the machine-gun fire. Every glance noble and wise, not one single empty thought, not one sinful intention. After all, we were Others. We'd risen above the crowd, unfurled our immaculately clean banners, polished up our high boots, pulled on our white gloves. Oh, yes, in our own little world we could never go too far. A justification could be found for any action, a noble and exalted justification. A unique act for the first time in the ring—here we are all in white, and everyone else is covered in shit!

I was sick of it!

A passionate heart, clean hands, a cool head… Surely it was no accident that during the Revolution and the Civil War, almost all the Light Ones had attached themselves to the Cheka? And most of those who didn't had died, at the hands of the Dark Ones, or even more often at the hands of those they were defending. At the hands of human beings, because of human stupidity, baseness, cowardice, hypocrisy, envy. A passionate heart and clean hands. But keeping a cool head was more important. That was absolutely essential. I didn't really agree with all the rest. Why not a pure heart and hot hands? I like the sound of that better.

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"I don't want to protect you," I said into the quietness of the forest morning. "I don't want to! Children and women, old men and imbeciles—none of you. Live the way you want to, get what you deserve! Run from vampires, worship Dark Magicians, kiss the goat under his tail! If you've deserved it—take it! If my love means less than your happy life, then I don't wish you happiness!" They can become better, they must, they're our roots, they're our future, they're our responsibility. Little people and big people, road sweepers and presidents, criminals and policemen. They carry within them the Light that can burst out in life-giving warmth or death-dealing flame…